


My Love

by 221Btls



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, First Kiss, Holidays, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 18:22:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1097170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221Btls/pseuds/221Btls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The second Christmas after Sherlock's death, John receives his greatest gift.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Love

**Author's Note:**

> My Love is from Paul McCartney and Wings Red Rose Speedway Album.

There were many times he hadn’t been sure he had done the right thing, the times he had told Mrs. Hudson she should start looking for a new tenant; he was moving out of 221b.  Told her that to wake up every day to an empty flat, empty of the man that had come to mean so much to him, was beyond what any one person should be expected to bear.

John had had no idea if Mrs. Hudson had tried very hard to find a new tenant, or even if she tried at all.  All he knew was that every time he told her he was going to look for a new flat he soon had a change of heart.  He would tell Mrs. Hudson that he was sorry for her trouble, but would she mind very much if he stayed after all?

And each time she would respond, “Of course not, dear,” relieved to know that she would not lose John as well, for it would have been too much for her to lose both her boys. 

Over time the desire to leave behind the physical reminders of his sorrow grew weaker, until it went away completely.

And now, after almost two years, he’d come to be  glad he still lived in the home he and Sherlock had shared, that he was still surrounded by the detective’s books on the shelves and the science equipment in the kitchen that was touched only when dusted.  The violin case sitting in the corner and the skull on the mantle still giving him the sense that Sherlock was somehow there with him.  Not in a maudlin way, but more as if he was wearing a comfortable old jumper that one just couldn’t part with no matter how ratty it became.  Having Sherlock’s possessions around him made him feel as though he was wrapped in, well, love. 

So, on this Christmas Day, the second since he had lost Sherlock, he was having a small dinner at the flat.  He’d put up a little tree in the corner and strung the cards along the mantle.  It was almost as if he had not gone through the long period of mourning.  But he had, and he now finally knew that he would be fine, that he had gotten through the worst of it.  Knew that though life would never be quite as brilliant as it had been when he had run through the dark streets of London with the best friend he had ever had, there was still something to commend it.  It could still be good.

There had been a light snow the night before that leant the city the air of a picture postcard.  And inside the flat, the fire warmed the room and the small band of misfits that gathered around his table… Mrs. Hudson, Greg, Molly.  People who were well loved but had no other place to go on this day that was defined by ‘family’; they were their own family now.  Mike, his wife, and kids stopped by momentarily to wish everyone a Happy Christmas, on their way to Regents Park for their annual trek through the lighted trees. 

As they sat down at the table to the feast of food, John poured everyone a glass of wine and raised his glass for a toast.  A toast to loved ones that weren’t there with them.  A toast to the man that had been the best human being he had ever known.  A toast that instead of sending a dagger to his heart as it had the year before, left him instead with a sense of peace, an appreciation that he had had the privilege to even have known Sherlock Holmes at all.

Midway through a dinner punctuated by laughter and bawdy stories came a knock on the door.  Mycroft.   John had invited him for dinner as well, knowing that even a self-contained man such as he shouldn’t be alone on Christmas.

Compassionate heart that he had, John was aware of how hard Mycroft had taken Sherlock’s death and anyone who loved Sherlock that much couldn’t be all bad. Though he had managed to forgive Mycroft for his part in Sherlock’s death, he knew he would never forget. 

Looking as apologetic as any Holmes was able, Mycroft said, “So sorry to be late, there was urgent business to attend to.”

Mrs. Hudson tisked in disapproval,  unable to understand how any ‘business’ could be more important than gathering with friends and family on this most sacred of holidays.  If John Watson wasn’t family, then she didn’t know who was.

Mycroft chose not to engage Mrs. Hudson in debate on the matter and directed his attention to John, “I brought you a little something and I would like you to open it now if you would.”

John, mindful of his duty as a gracious host, said, “Thank you, Mycroft.  We’re in the middle of dinner, but I’ll be happy to open it when we’re done.  Come sit down and join us.” He motioned toward the empty seat they had saved for him.

“I don’t think you’ll want to wait for this,” Mycroft said, adding with a faint grimace to the group at the table, “Apologies.”

John took the petite box offered him.  The paper was obviously expensive and with the bow that adorned it, John guessed it had been professionally wrapped at one of the more posh shops in Westminster.  Untying the ribbon, he pulled the top off.

Inside was a card, slightly larger than a business card, that read ‘Sherlock Lives’ in a graceful script, handwritten.

John looked at the card, confused.  He could read the words, but he couldn’t understand them.  A buzz took ahold of his brain making it difficult for him to think clearly. 

He looked at Mycroft, his face suddenly somber, his heart beginning to thump loudly in his chest.

“And just what is this saying?” he asked cautiously, breathing deeply as he tried to get oxygen to his head.

Mycroft tipped his head, meeting John’s eyes, holding them as he said gently, “Go open the door.”

John looked at Mycroft, finding he couldn’t move; he was frozen in place.  He glanced at the closed door, afraid of what he might find on the other side.

Afraid of what he might not.

“Go, John,” Mycroft urged, more softly this time. 

As John did what Mycroft asked, he knew his limbs were moving but he couldn’t feel them, couldn’t feel the floor beneath feet that took him to the door.

Turning the handle he opened it, in that moment thanking God he hadn’t let go or else he might not have been able to stay upright.

Looking through the open door his mind swirled, a cacophony of bewilderment and joy and amazement as his eyes rested on the face he had not seen in two years.  A face that looked uncertain.  A face that was asking to be forgiven. 

The most beautiful face he had ever seen, then and now, and that he had thought, had _known,_ he would never see again. 

As he stood contemplating Sherlock a surge of anger swelled in John .  Where had he been?  Why had he not contacted him? How fucking _dare_ he waltz in here with no warning after the two most painful years of his life?! 

Instinctively his hand balled into a fist, shooting up to smash into one of those goddamn cheekbones.  His hand was halted mid-strike by Sherlock’s palm, jarring his arm.  As Sherlock held the now stilled fist, the two men stared at each other, for one, two, three seconds, and suddenly they were in each other’s arms. 

“Sherlock.  Jesus, Sherlock.”  John’s words were muffled as he buried his face in Sherlock’s chest, his hands gripping tightly to the collar of the coat he had last seen, bloodstained, on the cold pavement at St. Barts.

“Forgive me John, please, forgive me,” Sherlock murmured over and over, his voice broken by the intensity of his feelings, his arms wrapped around the smaller man, holding him tightly against him.

Sherlock’s head tucked down into John’s neck and John’s face nestled into Sherlock’s, cheek to cheek, their hands touching each other to reassure themselves they were really there.  Together. 

The dinner guests, wanting to give the two men their privacy- there would be time later to offer their own ‘welcome home’ to Sherlock- quietly left the flat.  The last to leave was Mycroft who paused on his way out, clearly moved by the reunion.

“Merry Christmas, John,” Mycroft said.

John looked at him with grateful eyes, thanking him for the immeasurable gift that had just been given him.  He turned his attention back to Sherlock as Mycroft quietly closed the door behind himself on his way out. 

When their lips met, their kiss was messy and noisy, fueled by too much want. Too much need.  Too much grief.  Wetted by the tears running down their cheeks.  Hands touched cheeks, ran through thick curls, traced a beloved jaw. 

“John, I….” Sherlock started to say.

“Not now Sherlock, no talking right now,” John shushed him.  He held Sherlock’s face in his hands, fixing on it in wonder.  Wonder that the man he had cared about so deeply was alive.  Wonder that he was here with _him._ Wonder that he had ever thought he could live even one more day without him by his side.

Leaning down, Sherlock softly, gently, whispered against John’s lips, “my love”, raising his questioning eyes to John’s, asking that he be allowed to love the man he had given the last two years of his life to save. 

John’s eyes, warmed by a depth of love he had never before felt, answered with silent words.

Yes.

Always.

Yes.


End file.
